


silence is golden

by nubbins_for_all



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Brienne needs some TLC, F/M, Fluff, Fluff and Smut, Jaime is the Leetle Spoon, Loss of Control, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Semi-Public Sex, Smut, and as always, may or may not be the plot of a bad 90s movie, post-8x03
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-03
Updated: 2019-09-03
Packaged: 2020-10-06 06:43:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,972
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20502602
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nubbins_for_all/pseuds/nubbins_for_all
Summary: She brought him here because he insisted on privacy and she heard from Tormund (who is still looking for any chance to speak to her, damn him) that they’d finished the repairs last night. She can’t believe it, that Jaime is still so proud after the Long Night, that he doesn’t feel he’s earned the right not to be laughed at. Sparring in front of people using his left hand shouldn’t bother him anymore.“I was fighting for you,” he says when she tells him he’s being silly, “and I was fighting to live. I’m not ashamed to admit what gave me strength. But I don’t want any future living opponents to know how much strength I still need to make up for my…failings.”Bullshit, she thinks.In which Jaime and Brienne, through no fault of their own, find themselves trapped in a delicate position where being discovered would bode very ill for them...so Jaime decides to take advantage of the situation.





	silence is golden

**Author's Note:**

> Not necessarily a part of my Winter Isn't Goin' Nowhere verse. Just good ol'-fashioned smut from my warped mind. Whoopsie.

“There’s not enough room,” she complains for a third time, and Jaime doesn’t even bother lowering his sword at this point, just rolls his eyes and continues to circle.

“For a proper tourney duel, no. For a haggard old cripple to drill with his minder? More than enough, I say. Get your blade up, ser.”

“You’re not a cripple,” she says, even as she takes her stance again, “and I’m not your minder.”

He’s cranky. She doesn’t blame him for it, she’d be even worse if she’d spent a week with little or nothing to do in the aftermath of a legendary battle with the armies of the dead. He can’t help with the rebuilding _(“I tried, they saw me flopping around and dropping things and sent me packing,”)_, he’s still shut out of the military councils _(“By all means, ignore the one man who knows your bloody enemy backwards and forwards, brilliant strategy, love the North,”)_ and nobody wants to train with swords right now, not when their muscles still ache from the strain of hacking and slashing at the unstoppable tide of rot and gnashing teeth. Even his brother has little time for him, caught up in the Dragon Queen’s fervor, the threat of Cersei to the South, and the movement of pieces across a wide and unstable board.

Brienne has Lady Sansa to attend to, but her lady has been distant ever since a conversation in the godswood two days ago that Brienne was not privy to, and today she has once again dismissed her sworn shield so that she can speak privately with her sister. Brienne has no head for troop movements and clever field tactics and the business of war beyond clashing swords, and in any case it’s been made clear that it’s not her business, so before she herself becomes cranky she decides to go find the person who is definitely already cranky and do something about that.

That’s how they end up sparring in the maester’s turret, only just repaired from the ravaging wights, dancing and dodging around the wide wooden floor of what used to be the main bedroom. The tower is divided into a little suite, washroom and study offset against the western wall, and no maester would be allowed to freeze to death so it’s warm where the pipes of Winterfell run hot springwater up through the walls.

She brought him here because he insisted on privacy and she heard from Tormund _(who is still looking for any chance to speak to her, damn him)_ that they’d finished the repairs last night. She can’t believe it, that Jaime is still so proud after the Long Night, that he doesn’t feel he’s earned the right not to be laughed at. Sparring in front of people using his left hand shouldn’t bother him anymore.

“I was fighting for _you_,” he says when she tells him he’s being silly, “and I was fighting to live. I’m not ashamed to admit what gave me strength. But I don’t want any future living opponents to know how much strength I still need to make up for my…failings.”

_Bullshit,_ she wants to say, _it’s not about protecting an advantage, you still care what they think of you,_ but she doesn’t say it, because—well, because it’s Jaime, and he looks tense and strained and like he’s still considering turning her down and going back to moping about how useless he is now that the fighting’s over, and Brienne would rather spar with him in the darkness of the Black Cells than let him wallow like that.

So she brings him to the maester’s turret, which is empty and tucked away and has enough light and enough room.

She thought.

It’s mostly her issue, not his. She’s the one with the longer reach, who swings her sword two-handed and goes on the attack using the momentum of her size, building up speed over distance. He’s always been more elegant than her, with his tight spins and flashy ripostes. That day on the bridge, his last fight unmaimed, he’d been weak and weary and malnourished but he’d still come at her with nimble grace and brilliance, a feel for the way his own body could curve and slide, which she’d never had. Even now, having spent years building the strength in his left arm and fighting to correct all of his lifelong instincts, he still has the advantage when it comes to conservation of space. So around and around they go, striking out at each other, going for one or three hits as Jaime decrees, because this is for him, this time, and she’ll let him lead.

Except maybe it’s also for her. Because _Gods_, nothing feels good like moving with a sword, and when they move together, just the two of them, it’s like jumping off a cliff and never landing, a freefall of focus and trust, adrenaline, rushing in her ears. She’s fought hundreds of men and it’s never like this with anyone else.

_It shouldn’t be. That’s the point of Jaime, that it’s never like it is with another._

The room is warm and it gets warmer as they work, muscles burning with the strain of control and bursts of brute force. As Brienne moves, she can feel sweat on her back, under her tunic, and it starts to gather on her forehead and sting at the corners of her eyes. Her breeches are made of wool and leather and they’re tight and constricting and itchy on her thighs.

Jaime is sweating too. His hair is even darker at the temples, wet, spiky. He took off his jerkin, down to only his linen shirt, and it clings, dampens, sticks to him. The metal hand is lying on the ground in the corner and his flesh hand is strong around the hilt of his sword and he’s panting as he swings and cuts, his eyes alight, weight on his toes. He’s not a master with his left hand but when his blood gets up nobody comes alive with their sword like he does.

She parries, sidesteps, draws power from her back foot and swings hard, swings to hurt. The practice sword is blunt but it still rings when it hits his, and he falls back, agile, before coming at her again from the other side. She twists, he lunges, they switch positions, lungs burning, hearts racing, Jaime raises his blade too high as he goes for the downswing and she knocks it out of his hands with a strong upwards slice and they both gasp at the impact of the hit, her arms throbbing, Jaime rolling his shoulder and hissing through his teeth.

Suddenly it doesn’t feel like swordplay anymore.

Brienne retreats to her side, breathing hard, heat prickling under her hot breeches and lower back and throat. Everything is too tight, sticky, she feels like she’ll burst out of her clothes and maybe her skin too. She can’t move properly in this heat and these fabrics and with the throb low in her stomach that has her squirming just a little bit, sweating even more, getting hotter…

She turns back to Jaime as he picks up his sword and swings it in lazy loops, working out his wrist. He paces like a caged lion, but he isn’t smirking like usual. His jaw sets and his shoulders heave and a bead of sweat breaks free from his neck and slithers down, over his collarbone, disappearing into the loose linen of his shirt. Brienne can’t tear her eyes away.

The thing is, it’s been a long and restless week since the Long Night. But it’s also been a week since they fucked for the first time and found out how good they were at it. And in that sense, it’s been a _very_ busy week.

Brienne swallows, her sword burning in her hand. He’s stalking her now, down low in his stance, circling the edge of the room. _Too small in here_, she knows, _I’ll get cornered and he’ll have his choice of attacks._ She mirrors him, trying to stay level with her steps, and they move in unison, just like always, the tension between them bending and flexing like a living thing.

_This is all madness. The two of us, here, days after the end of the world, sparring in an abandoned tower in Winterfell and staring at each other. It was never supposed to be like this, we were not supposed to survive, and now it’s just him and me._

_I want his tongue between my legs._

The thought comes unbidden, or perhaps it’s just her mind finally catching up to her body, but the second Brienne puts words to the feeling inside her it’s all she can think about. Because she _knows_ now, not just fantasies and the touch of her own fingers, she knows how he feels and what he can do to her and it’s not true that nothing feels good like swinging a sword, sex feels like swordplay without the fear and the sharp edge, the adrenaline comes from desire, from _him, _him and his—

Jaime senses her distraction and lunges, blade flashing. She barely manages to parry and dart back, unsteady on her heels, and he comes at her again from the other side, a blow she blocks with only the tip of her sword, and the force of it vibrates through her.

_I want his mouth on my breast and I want him to bite my nipple with his front teeth and I want him to dig his nails into my arse._

Seven days means seven nights, and each of those seven nights has been an expedition into dark territory, shadows in which tongues and fingers and hot wet skin roam free, and Brienne is many things but she is not afraid of the dark. Jaime is no coward either, and the experience of him, his body in her bed, his skin on hers, him inside her and above her and beneath, is addicting. The way he looks at her is blinding, and the words that trip clumsily and slowly off his tongue have burned themselves into her heart, but the truth is that even without those things, without _love_ and _mine_ and _I’ll stay, _she still would be drunk off him, she would crave him, like she does right now.

He’s still on the attack, tight slices and jabs she has to move fast to counter, and it’s harder than it should be to focus because his face is glowing with exertion and his skin is wet and she can smell him, musky earthy copper _Jaime_, all around her, and when his blade comes down on hers she thinks—

_I want him deep and hard inside me and I want to hear him say my name._

Her sword clatters to the ground.

It’s the first time he’s disarmed her today and the silence in the moments after is thundering. She stares blankly at the dropped blade, looks up at him, sees his eyes wide and on fire, his sword hanging limp at his side now. Both of them are breathing heavy, and she watches his chest heaving.

Brienne clears her throat. “Not bad.”

She waits for him to gloat.

Jaime’s sword hits the ground with a loud clang as it bounces off of hers and in three strides he’s on her, grabbing at her hair so viciously her scalp burns and tears come to her eyes and she cries out but it disappears into his mouth, he’s _consuming_ her, biting hard at her lower lip and his tongue is lush and fast and insistent, hers has to be too, she has no choice.

She’s clutching him with all her strength, which means she might hurt him, she should loosen her grip but she can’t, she wants him _closer_, and he’s just a little bit shorter than her and so as she grabs and gropes at him he has to go up on his toes and it tips his weight forward and onto her and he loops his maimed arm under her shoulder and clings, _Gods yes_, she loves how he matches her, how he doesn’t make her feel huge and awkward but strong and powerful, how unafraid he is to let her sweep _him _off his feet.

One of her hands is grabbing at his ass and shoving their hips together and the other arm is wrapped around his neck, anchoring him to her. He kisses her so deep it feels like he’s taking the breath right out of her and she moans and shudders and whimpers because it feels so so good, she has to make noise, there’s no room inside her for how this feels, and Jaime pants, “Make more sounds like that,” and he’s hard against the seam of her leg and pelvis, he’s grinding against her, she moans again—

“That is not the purpose of this meeting!”

“Your grace, I ask you—”

Voices.

Down below, very very muffled but rising as they ascend the steps to the top of the turret.

Brienne’s entire body locks up and if she really is squeezing Jaime too tight then oh well, he may just have to suffocate, what a shame.

“Do not speak to me like a father speaks to a willful child. You are my Hand.”

“Dany, he didn’t say anything wrong.”

“The same goes for you!”

Daenerys. Tyrion. Jon Snow. Closer every second. They wouldn’t be coming here if they weren’t trying to avoid being seen and heard, and if they find the Kingslayer and the sworn sword of the Stark women dry-humping in the secret council chamber, if they wonder what they may have _already_ heard—

“_Move_,” hisses Jaime, and suddenly he’s wrenching himself backwards out of Brienne’s arms and she’s swaying, panicking, her heart pounding, aroused and terrified and showing once again how bad she is at field tactics, but luckily Jaime is the strategist she needs as he dashes to his golden hand, moving on his toes to avoid the thunk of bootheels, and he whispers, “_Get the swords”_ and she forces herself to bend down and pick up their two swords with shaking hands.

“Lady Sansa does not _need_ to be privy to this.”

Brienne catches those words from Daenerys, her tongue sharp and snapping, and she has about half a second to be enraged on her lady’s behalf before Jaime is using his stump to herd her sideways, pushing her up at the hip so she automatically goes on tiptoe without thinking. He hustles them over to the door that leads to the tiny study and shoves her into the dark interior, and following her in and carefully closing the door just as—

The clatter of bootheels grows sharp as the invaders enter the turret, coming up the small set of steps onto the empty floor. They’re arguing, talking over each other, which Brienne prays means they didn’t her and Jaime moving around, or before, the sound of them—well. Moving around.

“Why here?” Daenerys demands, sounding typically put out. “Are we so diminished that we cannot meet in a place meant for the purpose?”

There’s a muffled sigh and some shuffling.

“Your grace, we cannot risk being overheard. Though my little southern birds cannot venture north, I do still have some in my flock who are born to brave the cold.” As Brienne carefully sets down the practice swords on the floor, wincing at the softest clinks and rasps as they settle against each other, she recognizes that voice, so soft and slippery. Lord Varys had remained silent on the stairs, aware of echoes and walls with pricked ears.

_Please, Gods, don’t let him correctly assume a spy may be hiding in the study._

“They have told me unequivocally that information about our plans has made its way into the Red Keep, which can only lead to the conclusion that the Southern enemy has their own source of whispers. How fast the messages fly, how high or low the bird sits on our roofs, there is no telling, but we cannot be too careful now.”

“They just finished repairing this place a day or so ago,” Jon says, trying to sound upbeat and coming off a bit awkward. “We’re far away from anyone who could listen.”

Brienne looks at Jaime with a grimace. Or tries to, since she can barely see him in the cramped little room, rounded on one wall and square on the others, with the only light coming from an embrasure set high above their heads. In the weak grey light that almost totally fails to penetrate the gloom, Brienne can make out a small wooden desk, a chair and a bookshelf. They look untouched, which means the study must have been locked during the Long Night. The dead were much better at mindless murder than at navigating keyholes.

Jaime meets her gaze as best he can, squinting a little in the dim space. He’s standing by the door, good hand still on the handle, and it’s only now that she sees he actually has his golden hand in his mouth. It dangles from his teeth by the leather straps, which would have been his only option if he was holding it when he was trying to get the door open. He looks a little like a dog who has found a dead animal and brought it home to his master in eager hope of praise.

Maybe it’s the adrenaline of the fight and the kissing and the sudden run for cover, maybe it’s the goofy way the disembodied hand is swinging by his chin, maybe it’s just that her bar for the absurd has been lowered. But Brienne starts laughing, desperate to stay silent, her own hand clamped over her mouth. She feels Jaime shove her lightly, chastising her, but she can’t help it, she heaves and shakes with silent giggles until her chest hurts and her eyes are wet.

When she finally manages to get herself under control, she looks up to see Jaime staring ruefully back at her, his golden hand now clutched in his flesh one. She grins and stifles a hiccup, and he rolls his eyes but can’t help smiling back.

They’re still talking on the other side of the door. Right now it sounds like Tyrion is giving a bit of a lecture on the loyalties of smallfolk during winter, and how famine and the threat of it may be manipulated by a cruel mind. Brienne doesn’t want to hear that, both because it’s not meant for her ears and because it makes her stomach clench and her teeth grind, so instead she reaches out and pulls the golden hand away from Jaime, raising an eyebrow at him when he tries to tug it back and then sticks his tongue out at her.

She points behind her and turns in that direction, taking two very very careful steps on her toes over to the desk. She is even more careful in how she lays down the hand, aware of how loud the sound of metal smacking against would can be. But she does well, the hand rests on the wooden desktop soft as a feather falling to earth.

What’s not soft is the squeak she makes when she feels Jaime’s arms come around her waist and his hot, wet, determined mouth fasten onto the back of her neck.

_“Jaime!”_ she hisses as her heart jumps violently in her chest. The sound she just made, his footsteps, anything could give them away, and she starts to struggle but just then the drone of Tyrion’s voice stops and she freezes, terrified of making noise that might be heard without the cover of speech in the next room.

“That’s all well and good, Lord Tyrion, but we’re speaking of _now_, not three months time,” Daenerys snaps. “A betrayal to the false queen is grounds for death. We cannot let ourselves be sucked dry by leeches who hope to grow fatter still off rewards from King’s Landing.”

Speaking of sucking, Brienne may have gone still but Jaime hasn’t. His mouth is on the move, traveling up to her hairline, tickling as he nibbles and sucks alternately, coming around to her left ear, where he takes the lobe between his teeth and bites gently before running his tongue achingly slow over the ridges above, one by one. His breath is hot, wet, loud in her ear, which, on the fourth day of their ventures into the realm of the erotic, he learned drives her absolutely mad.

She wants to be furious. She wants him to know he’s not in charge of her. She wants to throw him off and go hide on the other side of the desk so he can’t do this to her while some of the most powerful and dangerous people in Westeros have a top-secret council ten feet and one very thin wall away from where they’re hiding.

She wants all of those things in a very small and sensible part of her brain. But the rest of her, the flesh and the nerves and the vast majority of her conscious mind, wants something very different, which is for Jaime to blow another hot breath directly into her ear while his tongue and lips pull at the sensitive lobe and his good hand starts to move from where it’s splayed on her stomach, sliding up, slowly, inexorably, towards where her left breast is already tingling.

Jaime obliges the second, less sensible part of her, and Brienne writhes, arching back against him. It feels so _fucking_ good, the weight of his chest against her back as his arms tug her flush against him, the unbearable sensation of his breath in her ear, the west rasp against her earlobe and neck. And heat, coming from everywhere, all up and down him, she can’t throw him off now, not _now, _even if she really tried she doubts her body would follow her commands.

Something throbs down there, between her legs, something hungry and desperate, and she can’t help it, a gasp slips out of her.

“Hush,” he whispers, the hand traveling up her stomach going still. “Not a sound.”

His own voice is so quiet she can barely hear him through the pounding of her blood in her ears. Before she can argue, say _whose fault would that be anyway?, _Jaime’s hand is moving again, but it’s changed direction, it moves down, pulling at the fabric of her jerkin as it goes and revealing skin along her left shoulder that Jaime immediately licks and bites and nuzzles. Brienne catches a whine on the top of her tongue—she never realized how much noise before, how difficult _(and, if she’s being terribly honest, rather exciting)_ it is to stay quiet when these things are happening to her—and makes up for its absence by rolling her hips back _hard_, grinding her backside directly into his groin.

If she felt him hard before, now it’s breathtaking, a hot steel ridge pressed up against her. Jaime catches his breath, still silent, but she knows she’s been successful by the way he sinks his teeth into her shoulders and sucks hard, marking her as his hips stutter back and rub in small jerky movements up against her. She presses into him, reaching back with one hand to grab his hair and hold his head down on her.

Jon Snow is talking now, his voice low but insistent. “Would we be any better than her if we did that? The Night King may be gone but he’s not the only threat to humanity. We cannot let ourselves become animals after we’ve only just saved the race of man from extinction.”

“For a man who went to the greatest lengths and beyond to fight the dead, you council caution and sportsmanship very eagerly,” Daenerys replies coldly. “Perhaps you do not find the initiative as worthy.”

“My lady,” says Jon, stricken, right as Jaime’s hand finally, _finally_ slips under the hem of Brienne’s tunic and then travels up, much faster this time, pushing the fabric away from her skin as he squeezes her breast and then roughly pulls at the nipple. He pinches so tightly it makes her eyes water and her knees go weak.

Brienne fights for air, fights to breathe, as Jaime moves his hand back and forth beneath her shirt, groping at both her breasts in alternation. She squirms against him again, biting her lip, swallowing over and over, trying not to make noise, trying to be careful—and then he humps against her ass, hard, just once, but the heat and the impact drive out the last of her strength and she sags forward, clutching the desk with both hands to keep herself upright.

“We can’t be stuck here forever,” say Tyrion in the other room, and he sounds frustrated. Brienne can relate, between Jaime’s fingers pinching and stroking and squeezing at her chest and his hips rolling up against her and the way she can’t put a hand on herself to find even a moment of relief because most of her weight is in her arms right now and she’ll definitely fall face-first onto the desk and the fact that all of this is happening at a moment when she has to be _silent._

She wants to make noise. It’s all building in her, every grind of his clothed cock against her equally clothed ass, the way he’s pillaging her breasts, and his mouth back on her neck, scraping teeth across the skin as he tries to gobble her up, it’s dizzying and delicious and driving her insane. _Gods,_ she will never again fail to appreciate a private room with thick walls and a locked door, she’ll speak more in conversation, maybe she’ll learn to sing, anything in celebration of the freedom of speech, because right now all she wants in the world is to moan and gasp and cry out and find some kind of pressure valve for everything building inside her, this—this is _torture. _

Except it seems she doesn’t know the meaning of torture, because just when she thinks she can’t take it anymore and she’ll have to either push Jaime away or get them both arrested for spying, Jaime steps back, his hand sliding out of her shirt, and it all stops for a moment, the heat and the rubbing and the roughness of his calloused fingers on her skin, and she’s already swallowing her _what the hell are you doing_ when there’s a quiet shuffling behind her and suddenly Jaime is _below_ her, far below her, he’s on his knees and his hand is on her hip and he’s pulling back, forcing her to turn so that her ass is up against the edge of the desk and he’s face to face with her crotch, and Brienne is focusing so hard on not making any noise whatsoever, not yelping or gasping or taking heavy steps in her boots, that she doesn’t immediately realize he’s unlacing her breeches, and so when he yanks them down to her knees she has only a second to be confused and then to think _oh Gods no he wouldn’t_ before Jaime grabs the back of her right thigh so hard the bruises will be black and buries his face in her cunt.

_This_ is torture.

“This is already a risk,” Jon Snow says, sounding tired. “And I won’t discuss it again without my sisters present. This is bad enough, meeting like this without them here.”

“Your _sisters_ seem divided in their loyalties,” Daenerys says softly, dangerous. Tyrion clears his throat.

“But we may all agree that we have the same goal, don’t we? Getting Cersei off the Iron Throne, throwing off the yoke of tyranny she has placed on the shoulders of—”

“The goal is not to leave the Throne empty, but to install the rightful ruler!” Daenerys cuts in again. Someone sighs, maybe Varys, maybe Tyrion. There’s a rhythmic tapping as one of the occupants of the larger room begins to pace.

Brienne hears all of this and yet none of it. She’s trying to focus on those voices, catch every word so as to remind herself that they are _right there_, they will hear her if she is too loud, even if she is quiet, she cannot speak, she cannot move, she must stay silent and still and—

_Oh sweet fucking Gods Jaime._

He’s relentless, and worse, he’s practical. The whole time he’s kneeling there, carefully reaching down with his good hand and raising her foot, pulling off her boot and setting it gingerly aside, worming her breeches down on that leg and getting her to yank her foot free so he can immediately drape her liberated leg across his shoulder—that whole time, his tongue is moving, flickering fast and insistent against her clit, rhythm unbroken no matter what else he’s doing.

When her leg is freed he’s able to press closer, lick harder, a little slower now but more pressure in every swipe of his tongue over her, and then the fingers of his left hand are gently stroking lower and inside of her, dipping in and out and then in again, and he still never stops what he’s doing with his mouth, even as he slips two fingers into her and crooks them so that they rub hard and thorough over the spot that makes her entire body shake.

“Do you have another plan, then?” Daenerys demands, and this time it’s definitely Tyrion who sighs.

Brienne has her eyes squeezed shut, breathing through her nose even though that feels too loud, like a snorting cow, but she can’t help it, she _cannot help it, _the alternative is to open her mouth and that would be a disaster. Her hands are gripping the desk behind her, fingers going number. She wants to yell, wants to scream, because this—this is everything, it’s filling her up from top to bottom. _It’s meant to give you pleasure_, Jaime had told her right before the first time he did this, and “pleasure” is such a small and simple word for how this feels, every muscle in her body tensing and releasing, coming out of her skin, a desire for more that rises up and drowns her like a tidal wave.

“Mm, mm, mm,” she whimpers helplessly, nails scratching against the wooden desk as she thrusts forward against his mouth, his fucking _mouth_. His fingers slide out of her and a moment later dig into the flesh of her thigh as he squeezes her, and she gets the message: _be quiet._

But she can’t, oh Gods, she can’t, not like this, not when—when he won’t—it’s not stopping—and her control is slipping, she never loses control, she’s Brienne of Tarth, but now in this moment the control she’s carried with her across Westeros and through wars and on and on and on up into this cramped little study is failing her.

He sucks on her clit briefly and oh Gods _oh Gods yes that, fuck _me_, _there are footsteps and raised voices outside the door and Brienne tries to catch her breath, desperate for any kind of outside noise to hide beneath.

“Jaime, Jaime_, please_,” she hisses, as quietly as she can, but even that is too much and the last word opens up into a moan, a small quiet one but still too loud, far too loud, and she slams her hand over her mouth, tries to focus, _focus, no sound, don’t come, control._

But then Jaime _bites_ her, the bastard, just enough to twinge and make her pulse and clench around his fingers. Her head falls back as she bites her lip and looks towards the ceiling—

“_Enough_!” cries Daenerys, her voice deep and commanding, and all movement outside and inside the study stops.

Brienne is panting, trembling from head to toe, so fucking close to the edge that she could cry. Jaime’s mouth is still pressed against her clit and his fingers are still inside her, but he’s not using either of one of them.

“I have done everything you asked of me,” Daeneryes continues, and the anger in her voice is like raw, brutal fire, a blast of green billowing like smoke from the earth. “I have suspended my attack on King’s Landing and the usurper of my crown. I have brought my armies and my dragons north.”

Jaime’s tongue starts to move again. Up and down, up and down, up and down, just the tip, too gentle, only enough to make something white-hot and agonizingly good start oozing down her legs.

“I sacrificed thousands of men who were loyal to me, because you told me it was necessary.”

A little harder and faster, grinding against her a bit, and one of the fingers still inside her curls and pushes.

“I withstood the disdain and mistrust of your people, your allies, your own _sisters.”_

A poke in her hip on the other side, and Brienne finally looks down to see Jaime on his knees, staring right back up even with the bottom two-thirds of his face deep inside her, and his eyes are black, all pupil in the dim light, and he’s sweating even harder than when they were sparring, and when their eyes make contact his brow furrows with determination and suddenly there are three fingers inside her, rubbing so so so hard _right_ where she wants them, and his tongue is going so fast and it won’t slow down, she can’t take it, she can’t—oh—_oh—_

“I am no longer asking for your assistance, Lord Snow, I am commanding you to supply it.”

“I’m—Jaime, I’m about to—”

She says it as quietly as she can, less than a whisper, more just like she’s breathing out, and her head is spinning, she’s trying so hard not to scream like she wants to, convulse like she wants to, throw her head back and moan at the ceiling and the sky and anyone fucking else who might hear. If she comes now she doesn’t know if she’ll be able to get through it silently, it might all be for naught, she’s not strong enough, _Gods I want to scream his name I want to let go oh please oh please—_

“No more secret councils in tiny rooms. From now on, my authority will be final, and it will be public.” Sound of footsteps, down the stairs, the door creaking open. Daenerys has stormed out, maybe the others will—

He nods up at her, even as a fourth finger pushes in and she feels the gentle press of his teeth against her clit. He’s not going to let her wait this one out.

In desperation she flails, clutching his hair with one hand and groping behind her for anything solid to hold on to, even as she feels the point of no return approaching and hears Jon Snow murmuring to Tyrion and Varys outside the door, and her hand lands on something hard and bulky, _fuck he’s going faster, fuck fuck fuck they’re still out there—_

“No word of this must leave the three of us,” Tyrion says solemnly, and that’s the exact moment Brienne's orgasm hits her so hard it’s like a sword to the chest, stabbing through her and then exploding in a blaze of heat and rushing pressure and mind-blowing relief, the imprint of Jaime’s fingers and mouth seared into her skin, and the scream is there rising up in her throat it’s bursting out of her and so she does the only thing a person in the midst of coming their brains out can do and stuffs the hard bulky thing from the desktop into her mouth, biting down on soft thick metal and letting every noise leave her as a low, choked grunt, muffled by the object where her teeth are clamped down around it.

It may have lasted ten seconds or it may have lasted until spring came again. Either way, when it ends Brienne finds herself exactly where she was: hidden away in a maester’s study with her pants around her ankles and her ass numb where it’s pressed into the edge of the desk, the rest of her body shuddering and shaking and weak with aftershocks, and Jaime’s golden hand in her mouth.

Jaime is still down on the floor in front of her, looking up with those bright green eyes. Very, very slowly, he leans back, his face emerging from her cunt. He’s slick and shiny, covered in _her_, and the way he’s staring up at her is pure worship. Moving like she’s in a dream, Brienne reaches up with sore fingers and pulls the golden hand out of her mouth. It’s got two crescents of teeth marks on it now, embedded in the soft gold, like another filigree pattern.

Brienne can’t do anything. She can’t move, she can’t breathe, she can only stare down at Jaime, horrible risk-taking idiotic Jaime, who just made her feel more wonderful than she ever has in her life, and listen dimly to the sounds of Tyrion and Varys and Jon Snow exchanging a few more gloomy words before their footsteps file one by one down the stairs and out of the turrets, slowly fading away until there is only quiet in their little sparring ground again.

“Fuck me.”

Her voice sounds strange when she says it, hoarse, which makes no sense since she actually _hasn’t_ been screaming and shouting, much as she might have wanted to. The words sound strange too, but it’s all she can say when she’s in the sway of those eyes.

Bless Jaime, whose knees must be absolutely killing him after all that hard work, but he still takes charge here, clambering up her body even as he pushes her back onto the desk. She tips languidly backwards, her whole body loose, the golden hand clattering to the floor as she lets it fall to the side.

He sets her right leg up on the edge of the desk and wraps the other around his waist, breeches and boots and all. He gazes at her, hair standing up crazily where she grabbed at it, face still shining and wet, smelling like her, smelling like sex. Though his eyes don’t waver, hers do, as she looks down to watch him untie his breeches one-handed, struggle to shove them past an erection that must be hard enough to split rocks, curse and grunt as he finally gets the woolen garment down far enough. Then suddenly, faster than one might expect a one-handed man stuck halfway out of his pants to be able to move, he’s yanking her closer to him and grabbing himself and finding and pressing and—

_“Brienne,”_ he groans, as loud as he wants, it’s not fair, how dare he, but she decides to let it go because the resentment would distract from his beautiful face, contorted above her, and from the feeling of him inside her, thick and wonderful as he starts to move, and _that spot, that spot, she’s already so tender and fucked-out, it’s agony when his cock drags across it, it’s too much, she can’t, oh Gods it’s good, Jaime—_

She thinks she may be crying but she can’t be sure, the only clue is that Jaime has gone blurry above her. His teeth are bared as he pounds into her, shoving her up the desk, down on his right elbow and his left hand snaking between them to find her overly-sensitive clit and rub against it and make her moan just as loud as she wants, her back arching.

“Do you have any idea what it was like to watch you,” he growls into her neck, biting at the sweaty flesh there. “Try to stay quiet, stay in control, while I know how much you want to fucking _shriek—“_

“_Jaime_,” she moans, and his hips stutter like the sound of his name is some kind of trigger and now he’s pounding her even harder, pumping and straining and more growling, scratching at her arms.

“Imagine if they knew,” he pants, and she can tell by the whine in his voice that he’s very close. “The whole time, you were back here with my tongue between your legs, so quiet, so strong, even though you came hard enough to take the castle down—”

“So good, Jaime, please,” she moans, enjoying the privacy, enjoying their own world, and Jaime whimpers and cries out and even as he comes, in a rush of rough cries and almost violent spasms, his fingers keep moving on her and his cock is _right there in the deepest part of her_ and she finishes again, howling at the ceiling, crackling with white-hot release. She’s starting to laugh even as she comes down, just at the sheer joy and absurdity of it all. Jaime, lying limp on her chest and gulping in air, frowns for a facetious moment, but then starts to laugh too, weary and totally satiated, turning his head to nuzzle the front of her shirt _(they’re still both mostly dressed)._

“Did you hear what they were talking about?” she asks at some point.

“No,” he says. “All I could hear was you.”

“I was quiet!”

“That’s not what I meant.”

Brienne rolls her eyes at this ridiculous man, who has fought her and fought for her, who knighted her and guarded her back, who makes her insane and who makes her feel good and who very well may be in love with her.

Well, she may just love him back. Eventually she may tell him that.

Though not necessarily out loud.

**Author's Note:**

> the title is what we in the writing biz call a "joke"
> 
> (or an offense punishable by death, potato potahto)


End file.
